


Asmodeus Sucks

by mukur0



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Man of Letters Sam Winchester, Traumatized Gabriel (Supernatural), Witch Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-28 18:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19400272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mukur0/pseuds/mukur0
Summary: Sam Winchester, capable witch and Man of Letters, cleans house after Asmodeus pushes a little too much luck. What he finds in Needham Asylum looks like it's going to change his life.





	Asmodeus Sucks

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Masterpiece_of_turkey_cleverness!
> 
> Gabriel Bingo: square dark!sabriel / Sam Winchester Bingo: square huddling for warmth / Dark Bingo: square cell/cage / Heaven & Hell: square asmodeus / Bad Things Happen: square captivity

Never piss off a witch.

All the demons of hell knew better than to fuck with a witch that wasn’t under their thrall. The jealous housewives with the stupid deals, now that was one thing--it was the real monsters they had to look out for. Those favoured by gods and gifted with their magic were scary as hell (sometimes literally), and the ones who never had to draw from anything but themselves…

Well, those were a nightmare.

Dagon and Ramiel knew better, but for the last few years Asmodeus had been getting cockier, overstepping the ceasefire that had been made between the last of the Men of Letters and the Princes (or, well, himself, specifically, claiming to represent them). As for the Knights, Abaddon was in hell making trouble and no one else could be fucked to care, and Cain, well...did anyone really want to know?

Sam, for one, was perfectly happy never meeting that son of a bitch in his lifetime, and it was looking like it would be a very long one.

The last remnants of life flickered in Asmodeus, pulsing angrily as if it might surge back into its full hellfire before dimming and dying, purged finally out of a sack of flesh that hit the ground and withered. Disgusting. The customised blade glittered with old blood that would have to be cleaned with a dozen different rituals and oils before Sam could be sure it wouldn’t rust, and this thing was made for demons.

It had been close. Way too close, honestly--Asmodeus had almost snuck up on him, looking like someone else entirely and glowing with power that he had no business touching. Was that grace? It was more than an angel’s, and not only because it was snug inside a demon’s muck of a soul, almost blinding if Sam stared right into it with his third eye open. Something was  _ wrong, _ catastrophic if Asmodeus had access to (and could withstand) that kind of power. It was no wonder he’d been pushing his luck.

Thankfully it was as easy as shooting fish in a barrel to clean out the rest of his nest, some old, crumbling asylum that reeked of rotten eggs and only raised the question of why the hell they hadn’t been camped in hell instead. Sure, it was haunted as fuck and practically made of energy so negative it was like wading in a demon milkshake, but a Prince like Asmodeus couldn’t satisfy his hunger with old, lingering echoes. 

He almost left the haphazard, ugly ass (low budget?) throne room without a glance at the cages. There was no sound, no movement, which led to the quick assumption that they held only death or empty space, and a witch grandson of the Men of Letters was much more taken with the scrolls and books that lined the room. It looked like the place had changed hands several times, not that he was surprised.

Something scraped by the throne, a rough hiss of friction. He whipped around, knife in one hand and magic in the other, teeth bared at whatever might have gotten past him. Instead, the body of Asmodeus was gone.

Fuck.

He was startled again by a loud whimper to his right and pivoted on his heel, surprised to be met only with a sob. Okay, so the cages weren’t as empty as he thought. His bad. The papers he could get later, he decided as he crept towards the darkest alcove of the room, trying to catch a glimpse of anything. Even his third eye showed nothing in the shadows, so on high alert he knelt at the low door, knife still in hand.

Whatever was trying to hide so hard whined at the sight of its glittering. It couldn’t be anything strong enough to pose a threat if he couldn’t get a read on it, so after a long moment of hesitation he slid the blade into its sheath on his hip and lifted a finger to light up the corner instead. The brightness was met with a tiny cry but finally he could see the figure.

His heart stuttered and shattered. What a tiny mess of a creature, its face hidden in its filthy hands, clothes torn and stinking. What was he seeing? It was...a void of space, a big, big container run dry--

A divinity blasphemed.

Sam’s breath caught in his throat. He could catch shadows, the vaguest concept of shapes looming high over him, so much bigger than this room, so much more than his mind could possibly fathom. An angel? Was this what Asmodeus had been drawing on? That explained why they were on the living plane. His hands shook as he opened the cage door (a little twist of his fingers was all it took to break the lock into a million melting pieces) and backed away.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he whispered. Was this like talking to a stray cat? A hurt dog? One time he’d coaxed a fox out of a bear trap, and it had been a lesson in mortality he didn’t want again. “My name is Sam. I came here to kill the demon who had you here. Asmodeus--”

It gave a muffled sob. (Why did it sound so far away?)

No names, then. Certainly not that monster. “He’s gone. You can come out now, I’d like to help you. What’s your name?”

Why wasn’t he getting any response? Could it hear him? Did it speak English? Angels were omnilingual, weren’t they--but did that fade without grace?

He heaved a heavy sigh and crept towards the cage opening, grimacing as the figure caught sight of him through its fingers and scrambled back into the corner, head shaking, making a whimpering little sound that had to be begging. For what? Mercy? What the hell had been done to it?

There wasn’t much choice left, especially not if that sick son of a bitch was alive and might be back at any moment. Sam had to creep into the cramped cage, feeling claustrophobic, and pull the angel out by its shoulders. It kicked out at him, suddenly a flurry of movement and weird, closed-mouthed yells, and for all of that muscle atrophy it was surprisingly strong. Sam gasped as a foot collided with his cheek and gave a grunt and one final pull, finally freeing them both of the cell and falling backwards to both their surprise.

It was no wonder the angel hadn’t said a word. Sam draw a sharp breath at the sight of the stitches, obviously bespelled, sewing its lips tight. Their? His? Angels didn’t seem to care about pronouns the couple times he’d come across them.

They curled up into a ball on their side, expecting to be struck, but at least it made it easier to lift them into Sam’s arms and throw him over a shoulder. The angel went still, momentarily shocked, and with whining sobs they curled their fingers into his shirt and went still. Okay. Surrender. That was heartbreaking, but it certainly helped for now.

With the other hand he grabbed the most interesting tomes he’d managed to find before Asmodeus had escaped and traipsed out of the place like any other victorious conqueror--that is, huffing under the weight and plopping the angel hard into the back of the Impala with the hopes they wouldn’t ruin the interior. Dean may not have stuck around to be a ghost, but he might break out of wherever he was just to pitch a fit if the leather got scratched.

“Okay, look,” he said, climbing into the front seat. “There’s a bunker half an hour away in Rhode Island. I cleared it out a couple years ago.” Ah, yes, the Yokoth thing. Shudder. “I’m going to bring you there and help you get cleaned up. I promise I am not going to hurt you, man.”

Yeah, that totally helped the celestial being currently in the fetal position in his backseat. Okay. 

Adjusting the rear-view mirror to keep a better look at his surprise guest, he jumped at the sight of gold eyes meeting his in the reflection. Well...that was an improvement.

The angel shook, raising one hand to the back of Sam’s seat. When they met no resistance they lifted himself...waited… Bit by bit, over a confusing several minutes, they climbed over the seat and curled up in the middle of the front instead, pressed to Sam’s side. Apparently some of that reassurance had sunk in after all.

They stank, and for a split second Sam didn’t want to be pressed against all that dirt, but before the thought even finished he shut it down and laid a gentle arm around the angel’s shoulders. To Rhode Island, then, with a hurt angel in tow. He was already looking forward to a shower.


End file.
